Bribery
by WhovisHouse
Summary: "That America! Making me come all this way jus-...to...w-wait...what's on that picture?" ((WARNING- Containts: Bribery/Threats, non-con/dub-con, forced blowjob))
1. Chapter 1

Warning: Noncon/Dubcon-Forced Blowjobs-Bribery/threats

**I don't in any way support rape** **or bribery/threats**, I simply enjoy films, books and fanfiction with tragedy and emotional trauma, and I also love to torture England because I'm an evil bitch. If you have decided you're okay with this, then please enjoy. If not, don't read.

* * *

England sighs as he walks through the warm halls of the manor, America's manor to be exact. He had called England on some urgent issues, and his voice sounded rather serious on the phone, so The Brit decided to get there as soon as possible.

But it might have been nice if the idiot was there to meet him at the airport!

And really, not even answer the door to his own home?

England only knew where America was because the younger nation shouted a short, quick 'Study!' after England announced himself. Announced himself! He knew England was coming, so why should he have to announce himself! It's not as though he wasn't invited, oh no...

England snapped back to reality as he found himself staring at the shiny wooden door of the American's study. He rapped angrily on the wood and heard a voice from inside.

"It's open," It was America, and he sounded...distracted. England turns the handle of the door and steps inside. He had been inside of America's study before. The overly-large windows, the DC and Marvel memorabilia on the shelves, the taxidermy animals on the walls, and of course the many sticky glasses on his desk and burger wrappers in the small bin nearby.

America himself was leaning back in his comfortable chair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with Superman on it, looking at a small photograph in his hand. England couldn't see what it was of, but it caused a small smirk to come to America's face. England clears his throat, clearly _(understandably)_ annoyed. America finally looks up, acknowledging England's presence, finally, and putting the picture in his pocket, but the look on his face confused England slightly. He was smiling, yes...but it was the smile he always smiled when he had a plan he knew wasn't very orthodox, but was going to try anyway.

"Why did you call me all the way out here, America?" England sighed.

"I have a...uh, favour! Yeah, a favour to ask you!" America leans forward and rests his elbows on his desk.

"A favour? You forced me to come to your home for a favour?" England asked with a deadpan expression. "And you didn't even have the decency to greet me at the airport? I had to take a taxi, and you know how much I bloody hate taxis!" England sighed, "I don't owe you a favour, America..."

America's smile turned wolfish, and his expression dark. "Oh, I think you do."

England scoffed, "Excuse me?" He stepped forward and placed his hands on the desk America was leaning on, completely opposite him. He leaned down. "And for what, may I ask, do I owe you a favour for, United States of America?" He asked lowly

"I'll tell you later, you don't even know what the favour is yet, do you?" He grinned.

"What _is _the favour, then?" England narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

America's eyes darkened considerably. He motioned England forward with a finger. "Come closer, it's a secret." He whispered. England reluctantly leaned over the desk, closer to America, flinching slightly when the other nation's larger hands wrapped around his own, trapping them there.

_"I want you on your knees with my cock down your throat."_

England jerked back in surprise, but America's hands pinning his own kept them face-to-face.

"Whacha say, England? Doesn't it sounds fun?"

"Y-you! You shouldn't joke about those things! Idiot! This isn't funny!" England yells at America, struggling to free his hands. America stared directly into the Brit's eyes for a few moments before letting his hands go. England stood up, glaring at the younger country.

"Look, I don't know what kind of joke this is, but I'm not falling for it. If that is all you wanted to discuss with me, I will take my leave." England turned toward the door and stormed out.

Or...tried too. The door wouldn't open. England rattled the handle, panicked.

_Was it locked? No, it couldn't be! I-it wasn't locked before! Open, please open!_

"England..."

England froze at the voice and slowly turned his head.

"You owe me a favour, remember?" He said innocently, turning his head slightly as he rests it on his hand.

"I owe you jack shit! Now open this door!" England shouts. _Now really, this is getting ridiculous..._

America tuts. "Aw, England, you owe me a lot..."

"For what!?"

America stood up, slowly, and strolled his way around his desk to get to England and, to the older nation's relief he stopped about an arms length away.

America reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture he was looking at a while ago.

"You owe me for not spreading this little gem around..." He held the picture out, and England took it from his hands.

England's stomach dropped. The picture was...him...a-and...

It was England getting fucked by around a dozen different people. Men and women. The angle is from behind, with the Brit's ass in the air and getting penetrated by a man, who it seems is the one who took the photo. It also shows England's face, flushed bright red, panting, and with another dick in his mouth. You can also very slightly see another person underneath him, a woman, whom had England fucking her.

England doesn't remember this! W-well, he does but, it's fuzzy, he was drunk and-and the guy who invited him was very convincing!

It was a mistake he hoped he'd never have to remember but, apparently, America had other ideas.

"H-how...Where did you get this...?" He asked quietly.

"Hm...I have my ways." He shrugged innocently and took a few steps closer, so he was touching England. "Now...imagine this in the hands of Spain, he can never keep a secret, can he? Oh, neither can Italy... What about France, eh? This won't last very long in his hands, I could probably get a good deal for it too..." America's voice is sickly sweet as England feels his heart drop to the floor.

"Why...w-why are you doing this to me...?" England asks quietly.

"I got lonely..." He smirked.

"**Then go and seduce some whore! Why me?! What did I ever do to you to deserve this!?**" England turned harshly as he yelled this. America's innocent face suddenly turned stony, bordering on angry and he stepped forward. Closer, closer, and England felt a tremor of fear run down his spine as he his back hit the door.

"I have my reasons," He answered flatly.

"So. What will it be, England? Do me a favour, or this picture ends up on-screen at the next meeting."

* * *

America chuckled "You look silly down there," He says, mocking England.

England glares up at him, but it doesn't have much affect. He tried to say something, only for the hand on the back of his head to push him down further, push the cock in his mouth further inside. He choked. In this moment he wondered how he ended up on his knees, with America sitting in his chair in front of the Brit, his jeans open and hand in his hair.

However, England didn't have a long time to ponder as America's grip tightened. England whined, causing a smirk to come to the sadistic nation's face.

"Don't stop now, you were doing so well." He strokes England's hair affectionately in response. England pulled away as soon as his grip loosened.

"J-just...let me b-breathe..." He pants, rubbing his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

America stared down at England for a few moments, only letting him take a few breaths before he grasped the back of his head and guided it back to his shaft.

This time, he's not going to be gentle.

When England reluctantly took it back into his mouth he_grabbed_ the back of England's hair and shoved it down, feeling his cock head go down the Englishman's throat, and he groaned in bliss. England's eyes went wide as the cock went as deep as it could go, he felt his throat constrict tightly around the foreign object, and it made him give out a muffled yell. Fat tears came to his eyes as he struggled not to bite down, as America threatened that the picture will_definitely _get out if he did that.

America grinned at the expression on the Brit's face, as he yanked his hair to pull him off, only to shove him back down again. Tears streamed down England's face as his mouth was fucked mercilessly. His jaw ached, his head hurt and so did his knees. Everything was painful, and the cock constantly ramming in and out and in and out of his mouth hurt. England shut his eyes tightly and allowed America to do as he pleased, remembering to breathe out of his nose, and not bite down. _J__ust breathe and don't bite and it will be over soon, _J__ust breathe and don't bite and it will be over soon, _J__ust breathe and don't bite and it will be over soon.___ He told himself multiple times as America repeatedly dragged England's head of his cock and slammed it back down again. England's tears and muffled whimpers didn't cease and instead probably increased as America threw his head back and his actions became more hurried.

_Oh god, finish, please let it finish so I can go home..._

England let out a sob, as he felt the cock in his mouth pulsate before his mouth filled with a hot, boiling watery substance. He choked once more and tried to pull away, but the firm hand on his head stopped him. Forcing him to kneel there, in front of America with cum and a softening member resting in his mouth. He pants harshly and so does America, although his are interrupted with hiccups and sobs here and there.

"Swallow it." The sounds of breathing are interrupted by America's commanding voice. "I'm not letting you go until you swallow it." He glared down at England, scaring the Brit further. England silently begged for mercy he knew America wouldn't show him, not if he's like this. However, England refused. He lowered his gaze to America's stomach, refusing to move at all. Until he feels a hand pinch his nose, preventing him from breathing. He panicked, brining his hands up to grab at America's and try and stop him, but it was of no use.

_I can't b-breathe! I-I can't...- Let go! Please let go!_

"Swallow it!" America growled out. More tears ran down England's face as he swallows the liquid in his mouth, another sob coming after he has done so.

"Good boy," America let go of England's nose and removed his other hand too. As soon as he did, England swiftly moved his head away from the younger nation and rubbed at his cheek, trying to help his sore jaw. He didn't move however, he felt no motivation to. He felt used, dirty and he felt...

**Betrayed.**

That's the pain in his chest. America has betrayed him. As an ally and a friend. He allowed the tears and sobs to run freely, and didn't bother in cleaning the excess cum from around his lips, and some that dripped on his chin. He heard America move and looked down, unwilling to meet the eyes of the man that had just abused him. He felt a hand tenderly, and patronizingly, stroke his hair.

"Good boy. I might see you next month to discuss more matters."

He left the room.

He left England sobbing and dirty on the floor.

England got up a while later, and robotically walked through the halls of the house. The same ones he walked through a few hours ago. He didn't see America at all, and he felt relieved as he finally got out of the front door of the home. He looked behind him at the house.

_It's such a beautiful house...It's such an awful shame..._

He walked away with no intention to return.

* * *

The next day, England was on a plane and well on his way back to his own country.

He was glad the taxi driver didn't mention his red, puffy face as he got onto the taxi the other day, when he was leaving America's house. He was glad for the fact no-one seemed to notice the way he curled protectively around himself. He was glad no one on the place mentioned the fact he didn't have any luggage with him. He was glad no one noticed the broken, betrayed expression on his face, or the hot, angry tears that sometimes appeared in his eyes.

He was so very, very glad.

* * *

AHAHA I AM NOT SORRY


	2. Chapter 2

"Angleterre?"

England's head snaps up from where it had prevously been resting on his hands, "Oh-! Er, yes, France?"

"Zhe meeting ended a while ago. What were you so lost in thought about? Moi? Oh, I blush!" France places a hand over his heart dramatically, his eyes flicking back down to the Englishman sitting staring at him.

England blinks, a small puff of air escapes his nose, expressing his amusement. "Not on your life,"

France chuckles lowly, "Non, but you were lost in thought? Come, walk with me, tell me of your little day-dreams, hm?"

England sighs. He packs his notes and papers away within a small, black briefcase and follows the French country out of the room side-by-side. England notes that France is less talkative that usual. By now, he should be spouting something about the terrible state of his country, as if he didn't just have two-and-a-half hours to talk to the others about that.

But, no, he is silent as they walk down the corridoors to a private lounge. There are a multitude of these within this building, most are occupied by the others as they unwind from the grueling meeting. As the two European countries enter a small, empty lounge, complete with dark leather seats and even a small bar, (This place is very expensive,) France motions for the island country to sit.

England does so, with no small amount of suspicion in his movements. He narrows his eyes as France calmly walks to the bar and pours them both a brandy. England even catches the other's thoughtful, serious expression. It sends a small shock of fear into his belly. France hands England a glass and sits next to him on the settee. They both sip their drinks in an unnerving silence for a few, long seconds. Then, France turns to England.

"Something is the matter," He says simply. England raises a brow.

"Something's always the matter," He waves a hand uncaringly, "There's always something wrong with the world,"

"No, no." France sighs, "Something is the matter with you. You are not yourself, mon ami."

England's expression becomes guarded. "What do you mean?"

"You've been...quiet. Subdued, afraid, almost! I'm worried..." France lowers his drink and stares England down.

England blinks. He pauses for a second, his heart skipping a fearful beat, before he laughs, "Haha! Worried? There's nothing to be worried about, I'm fine-!"

"You're not." France replies immediately, "You are jumpy. Especially around Canada and America..."

England stopped listening. _No. That was weeks ago. Weeks. Don't make me remember. Please. Please don't make me remember..."_

"-gleterre? England!" France shakes the island countries shoulder. England takes a deep breath and another gulp of his brandy. "There! There you go again! I knew it, it's something to do with those two, isn't it? Isn't it? What happened England?"

England is silent for a long time, his expression grim. He wonders what France would do if he told him what had occured. What America did to him. He flexes his jaw, mumbling, "I've got to go," And begins to stand.

England feels a hand tugging on the cuff of his sleve, keeping him there. "...Let go of me, France..."

"Non. Tell me what happened. I can help."

England yanks his hand away, standing fully, turning to France, "No, no, you cant!" He holds his hands infront of him, acting like a weak barrier.

"Yes, I can! England, please!" France stands, too, and now their shouts can probably be heard within the other lounges.

"NO! No, please, don't make me remember! Don't-...don't make me remember..." England is on the brink of breaking and he can feel it. He wraps his arms around himself, shaking. He can feel tears beading in his eyes, however, none fall. That is, until he feels arms around his torso. France pulls the other nation close to him. They are both pretty much matched in height, so France rests his chin on England's shoulder, rubbing his back gently.

No sound escapes the Brit, however, he lowers his head so his forehead rests against France's shoulder. He sighs, shakily, allowing those tears to silently escape. If France notices, he does not comment, being England's shock absorber for the time being.

A long while passes. It could have been a minute, or an hour, the pair did not realise. France releases England, but keeps his hands on the Brit's shoulders. England refuses to raise his head until France ducks his own to look him in the eye.

"Come, sit," He says gently. England nods, allowing himself to be guided to the settee. "I will not force you to tell me. I now see it is probably something truly terrible...But, you should know, I would never tell anyone. Nor would I think less of you. I just want to help. I miss our fights these past few weeks," France manages a chuckle, prompting England to smile a little. "Do you think you could tell me what happened?"

England takes a deep breath and starts from the beginning.

* * *

_I have a...uh, favour! Yeah, a favour to ask you!_

_Oh, I think you do..._

_I want you on your knees with my cock down your throat._

_Aw, England, you owe me a lot..._

_I got lonely..._

_You look silly down there!_

_Swallow it!_

_Good boy. I might see you next month to discuss more matters..._

* * *

England's heart aches as he finishes recalling the tale. France, however, is shaking with rage.

"Ce BATARD!" He roars.

"France-!"

"How dare he!? HOW _DARE_ HE?!"

"Please-!"

"I AM GOING TO KILL HIM, INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS BE DA-!"

"NO!" France turns to England. "No, you...you promised you wouldn't tell anyone. Please...please, I don't...I don't know...Just, don't confront him on this, okay?" England pleads with the other country, something he has never done before and hopes to never do again.

"Okay...Okay, you are right. But we must tell someone. We cannot do something about this on our-"

"Do something about it? It's already happened! What else can be done?!" England yells, frustrated.

"It is still affecting you! What needs to be done, is to help you get over this." France takes England's hand and looks him in the eye, stern. England takes in a breath. "Come. You can stay in my hotel room. These canadian ones are fairly good, no?" France smiles lightly and takes England's hand.

* * *

"There is one thing I don't understand, Angleterre?" France says to England. They are on a plane from Ottawa to Paris. England has agreed to stay with France for a short while, as France insited he would likely go mad on his own.

"Hmn?" England replies, looking out of the window.

"Why are you nervous around Canada?"

"Likely because they look so similar."

"Ah. Of course."

They are silent for the rest of the journey.

* * *

England had been in France's home before, many times, so he is used to the large manor-house and it's extravagent golden trims and white, hand-carved pillars. France tells him to make himself comfortable in one of the guest rooms.

England stays with France for a week days, and actually enjoys being in the other's company. In fact, sometimes, it almost seems like they are back to normal again, continuing their regular banter. As England plans to leave in the next three days, he reminisces on the last week. France had been suprisingly thoughtful and gentle towards England, of which he appreciated. He understands he is still rather fragile at the moment, but he thinks this time with France has been healthy for him, and now he simply needs some alone time to get back within regular routine.

Then the doorbell rings.

France pokes his head from the kitchen, adjacent to the small reading room England is sitting comfortably in, which also happens to have a wide, open door giving him a good view of the hall and front door, raises a brow. The doorbell rings a few more times, as France's old, greying butler, Christophe, shuffles toward the door. He yells something in French as he opens the grand old white door.

America steps in. _No..._ He loudly greets Christophe and looks around. England's eyes grow impossibly wide as he shrinks back into his chair, using a book to hide his face. France steps forward a little too quickly. He places a heavy, friendly arm over America's shoulder, blocking the boy's view into the reading room and England.

"Aaah, Amerique! What a nice surprise! Come, come, what brings you here?" France leads America down the hall, away from England. Christophe shoots him a look before going back to his duties. England places a hand on his chest in an attempt to calm is erratic heart and breathing. _No. No. No. No. Please, no. He's here. Did he know I was here? Is he here for me? What does he want?!_

England stands and runs. He scampers up the stairs and into the spare room that he has claimed as his own. He locks the door, and sits down on the bed, burying his face in his hands, groaning.

_He's here. He's here and even if he doesn't know I'm here he's going to find out and he's going to hurt me again oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god._

The door handle rattles.

"Hey, France, why's this door locked?" _No..._

"Oh, the lock on that has been broken for a very long time, come, I'll show you the balcony!"

"Hey, you know, I could probably bust through the door if you want anything in there?" _No!_

"Oh, no, no, no, the room's empty, just leave it, come, come now! The views are simply beautiful at this time of the year! Oh, you must see!"

Their footsteps echo down the hall as they leave England's room. The Brit's heart is beating so fast he might as well have been running a marathon. He releases a breath.

_Thank god for France's quick thinking..._


	3. Chapter 3

England slowly opens the door and peers around at the wide hall that greets him. He had never heard America leave, however, France's manor is so large he doubts he would have been able to hear it anyway.

He takes a tentative step outside, straining his ears to hear that terrible voice echo down the halls. He hears footsteps behind him. Loud and shuffling. England turns sharply, with a deep inhale of breath.

Christophe. It's only Christophe. England sighs. The butler raises an eyebrow, "Is everythhing alright?" he asks hoarsely, his French accent is very noticeable.

"Ah...Yes, yes. Thank you." England replies with a hand over his heart. The old man inspects him, but continues on his way. That is, until England stops his shuffle with a hand on his arm. "W-wait. Is...Is America gone yet?" He asks the butler.

"I did not see him leave. But I have not seen or heard him in a while, non." Christophe leaves England alone in the hall, continuing on with whatever duties the poor old man has to do on his own. England furrows his brows as his stomach lurches and lets out a loud growl. He sighs and heads for the large staircase. _If Christophe hadn't heard America while he was working, it's likely America's gone, right?_ Right...?

* * *

England had just finished snacking on a few biscuits in France's biscuit tin, when a thought occured to him.

_Where's France?_

This thought makes the Brit pause in his munching. Where _is_ France? In the Garden, maybe? England looks around. The Garden, probably. It is true that France's lavendar was to be envied. England stood, heading for the back door.

"Hello, England." A voice behind him.

_No._

"What a surprise seeing you here! I never even noticed..."

_No..._

"I mean, I was only here on business, but now that you're here..."

"No...No, please," England whispers.

"What was that?" The voice is closer.

"No. 'S just another nightmare..." England feels himself shaking.

"A nightmare? Oh, this aint a nightmare, Iggy," Arms wrap around England from behind and he feels a strong chest press against his back. His stomach lurches. He feels sick. Breath licks his ear, "I missed you,"

England feels himself start to panic. He hears his blood rushing in his ears, and his breath becomes suddenly shorter. He has to get away, _has to get away, has to get away, has to get away, GET AWAY._

"F-FRANCE!" In a sudden surge of strength, England breaks away from America's grip and dashes for the back door. He hears loud, quick footsteps behind him, but he feels faster than light all of a sudden, and manages to stay ahead of the monster behind him.

England looks around the garden, frantic. The benches, the lavendar, apple trees up the far corner, France isn't near any of them. _No. No, please, please, France be here, please be here. _

England coughs as he is thrown forward onto the cold, grey stone of France's garden path, having the air knocked out of him. He chokes as his panic increases, as the weight behind him shifts to sit on the small of his back. As large, powerful hands grip is own painfully and force them behind him. England quivers with fear and adrenaline.

"France is taking a nap right now, Iggy. That means we have a little while to ourselves ya' know?" The monster behind him says playfully. It's almost sick how innocent America sounds. England gasps for air as America suddenly flips him over. England shuts his eyes tightly, not wanting to look at what America has become. The Brit hears a giggle from above him. "Awwh. You're so cute when you're scared..." He says. The voice is sickeningly sweet.

England feels the hands that were gripping his wrists let go and grip his hips instead. They move up, under his shirt. England shivers with fear and disgust.

_No no no no no no no no no no no no no no please! NO! HELP! FRANCE! FRANCE!_

"FRANCE! CHRISTOPHE! HELP- HELP ME, PLEASE! PLEA-!" England feels a hand clamp over his mouth and grip his cheeks painfully. England's eyes snap open. America is above him, his face is stony and bordering on angry. Those eyes, _those eyes_, the madness and anger behind them...

England shivers as he pants through his nose. He is scared. So very, very scared. America leans in close to his face. "Shhh..." He whispers, "Did you forget? About the image? I have it here, you know. Along with a few new ones..." He chuckles lowly, "Oh. And I'll also break a bone. How's that sound? Are you gonna behave?" England doesn't move. America's grip on his mouth tightens, "Are you?"

England nods, terrified, as America removes his hand from England's mouth. England takes a breath as America's cold hands slither up his shirt once more. England chokes on his tears and begins to tremble. _No please no don't stop please I'm so scared america please stop._

England closes his eyes tightly. The hands rip his shirt open and skip across his sides and hips, going lower with every movement. _Please. Please stop._

The hands are suddenly gone. So is the weight across England's hips. England's eyes slowly open to see...

France standing above him, his worried eyes meet England's terrified ones.

France!

_Safety!_

France kneels down infront of England and gathers the nation up into his arms, holding him gently, telling him it's going to be okay. America's shouts echo somewhere in the background, but he pays them no mind, and allows himself to sink into safety once more. Tears escape his eyes as sobs wrack his whole body. He was so scared. _So scared. _The arms tighten around him and pull him toward France's chest

And tired. Very tired. The day's stress had gotten to him as he slumps into the Frenchman's embrace, hiccuping, and allowing sleep to engulf him.


	4. Chapter 4

England feels light. And comfortable. Where is he? Bed. Yeah, a bed. At France's house. But not the guest bedroom? No, it smells different. France's room? Christophe's room? No, Christophe rarely stays overnight, he doesn't have his own room. France's room, then. But why? What happened?

The hands. The sick, cold feeling that returns to England now that he can remember. He sits up, looking around. Yes, France's room. Also, France's clothes. Some silk pyjamas, actually, which were a little too large for England's small frame, but comfortable nontheless. England rubs at his neck. He must have got whiplash after what happened the other night. Another wave of sickness.

The door opens, England feels himself start to panic. _Is it him? Is he ba-  
_

France steps in. England feels his held breath leave him in a rush. Only France, it's only France. He steps forward and England feels France place a hand on his shoulder.

France is asking him something. Is he okay? _Is_ he okay? That's a good question. England doesn't even know if he's okay. He nods, not really wanting to speak. France sighs and pulls England toward his chest. England smiles, feeling a little happy about how much France cares. It's nice knowing someone cares. England nuzzles into the Frenchman's shirt, finding comfort within his smell.

Instead of disgust, as he does with another.

But right now, let's focus on the good things. Like how _safe_ England feels at this moment. America can't get him, not with France around, and that thought is unbelievably reassuring. He doesn't want America to find him. Ever. Of course, it would be dangerous to cut all political ties with him, but England would simply feel safer in the thought that he never had to see him personally ever again.

Although, considering the long lives of nations that is unlikely. But still. He can dream, can't he? France pulls away.

"I'm going to get you some breakfast. You stay here, alright? I'll explain everything later,"

England nods. He doesn't move as France leaves, and doesn't move as he comes back either. France places the elevated tray on England's lap and sits down next to the Brit as he digs into his breakfast, a traditional English breakfast, isn't France thoughtful?

"It was the Gardener," He begins to explain. England raises a brow.

"Gardener? And here I am being jealous of your lavendar. I'll have to hire him,"

France chuckles, "No, no, he is more of a landscaper, but still. Anyway, he was the one who took America away. He is a surprisingly strong man. He would have gotten to you sooner, but he was around the front,"

England hums, "I'll have to thank him. Where is America now?"

"In the shed. I called the other countries and told them what happened,"

England blinks, "Why not call the police?"

"America is an important political figure, my friend, we cannot afford for something like this to go public. It could start something very serious."

"But _he's_ in the wrong, I don't understand why it would-"

France holds up a hand, "He is in the wrong, oui, but there are people who would stand by him nontheless,"

England sighs. Of course. There are some loyalists out there whose rose-tinted glasses are so damn dark they cannot see fault with their own country. Especially Americans. No offense to Americans, of course.

"So, who's coming?" England asks, just finishing his plate. Or, as much as he can because half of the food still remains.

"Russia, Germany, and Scotland,"

"Oh, joy, why is that arsehole coming? If he laughs, I'll shove my foot so far up his-"

"He's coming to, quote, 'Beat the living fuck out of that pansy's arse, so he'll never lay a hand on my wee brother again', unquote..."

England blinks, touched, before snickering, "Right. That sounds like Scot. But why Germany, and Russia, of all people?"

France shrugs, "I think Germany is here to keep the peace, and Russia wants to have an excuse to kill America. The others didn't come, either because they're too busy, or want to avoid this inevitable bloodbath."

England nods, France is right and they both know it. This _will_ turn into some sort of terrible fight, which will, hopefully, come out with America on the bottom.

"Hey," France leans forward and places a gentle hand on England's shoulder, "It will be fine, oui? You will be fine. We wont let him get to you again." France smiles gently, and England feels himself returning it. Yes, France is correct, It _will_ be okay. Right? Yeah. Yeah it will be.

* * *

England sighs as France hands him the phone. He had just been enjoying a nice, relaxing afternoon tea when his beloved (Read: Annoying) older brother felt like he needed to interrupt one of the only reprieve's England has from the world.

"Hello, Scot."

_"You! You, are you okay?!"_

"Yes, I'm fine,"

_"Ach, good. I swear, I'm going to beat the living fuck out of that pansy's arse, so he'll never lay a hand on you again! I'm on mah' way, so get some kind of alchohol ready."_

England feels himself smirk, "Awh. You _do_ care."

_"Only cause I'm the only one who gets to hurt you. Physically, of course, like old times,"_

"Of course."

Sigh._ "Gah, I'm sorry for lettin' this happen, brother..."_

"Heh...It's not your fault. You can get revenge for me, though,"

_"Oh, I will, don't you worry! I've go'a go now, anyway, see you in a wee bit."_

Dialtone. Really now, his brother is just a huge softie and, despite their fights, they really do care about eachother.

England turns to France, whom had just been listening in.

"He says get the alchohol ready,"


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur found himself dreading the next few hours. Germany sat opposite him, silent and understanding, as he can be surprisingly sympathetic when he wants to be. He understood the severity of the situation, and was calm. Surprisingly, his presence wasn't overbearing or suffocating, and was actually rather therapeutic as he silently read the newspaper (England didn't even know he could read French,) and politely sipped at some tea.

England mirrored him, reading a book and sipping tea as the larger blonde did. Despite their (relatively) recent history, him and Germany had a rather good relationship. They shared a love of quiet, and England appreciated how his friend's larger physique made him feel rather protected, particularly in a house with someone whom he would rather _avoid_ a few hundred feet away, in France's shed.

Germany had already questioned England on the event, he did not pry for details, for that the Brit was grateful. He had asked France of what he knew of what happened, and France simply told Germany what England had told him. England could, even, detect a small flicker of anger in the man's eyes. It was small, barely there, but England had learned what it looked like during the War, and had not forgotten any time soon. He felt rather touched that other countried genuinely cared for his wellbeing, and were willing to drop their duties to deal with the situation.

They were sitting in silence as they waited for Russia and Scot. England was, honestly, nervous. He hadn't seen Scotland in a while, and Russia could make _anyone_ nervous anyway.

He was curious as to how this would play out.

* * *

England smiled at the Gardener. A handsome man, tall, muscular, with a wide jaw, dark hair, and kind eyes. He smiled in return and reassured England that it was no problem he helped to apprehend America. England was impressed, this young Frenchman had managed to apprehend one of (If not the) most powerful countries in the world. It struck him as odd, at the least.

If they had met under different circumstances, England wouldn't have minded getting to know him better. As it was, any thought of_ that_ topic (or anything related to it) made his stomach churn, so he would avoid thinking about _that_ for now.

Russia had arrived, and was in the dreaded shed, along with Germany, whom were both questioning America ont he situation. England sat, quite comfortably, on a little bench France had placed on his porch, overlooking his garden. The Gardener had been posted outside the shed, phone at the ready if anything were to happen.

" 'Ey! Let me through! I'll kill 'em! Ah will!"

And then there's that.

England turned to see Scot running up the path from the front of the house to the back, with France following. He spots England. His wild red hair and piercing green eyes are just as England remembered, although now they burn with concern and anger.

"You!"

England blinks, "Me,"

Scot runs up the porch stairs and grabs England. He yanks his brother upright and pulls him close to his chest (He had a few inches on his 'wee brother') holding him close. England flailed.

"S-scot-!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I-..." He breathes heavily, well, he _is_ holding the majority of England's weight against him. "I-...He won' get to you again, alrigh'?! I'll make sure of it mahself. I'll kill 'em if I have to. I'm just-...So _sorry_."

"You're...crushing me," England finally whispers.

"Oh, I...er-, sorry." Scotland releases his brother and looks him down. "Ya look like shit," He comments, managing a small smile.

England chuckles, "Nice to see you too..."

* * *

The Gardener (England had now learnt that his name is Adolphe,) and France stand guard outside the shed as Scot looms over England on the porch bench, like some sort of guardian.

The shed door unlocked. Germany stepped out, shutting the door behind him. He looked in deep thought, and slightly disturbed. England and Scotland stood as Germany motioned for them to follow him to a lounge with his head down. He sat them down on some setees. After making sure England was comfortable, he glanced to Scotland for a moment before turning his gaze back to England.

"Are you sure you want your brother here?"

England paused for a moment. He looked at Scot and shakes his head. Scotland looked as though he was going to argue for a moment before silently standing and leaving the room. When he closed the door, Germany looked back to England, contemplating.

"I asked him...I asked him why he did it to you." England sucks in a breath and listens to Germany. He forces his face to be stony. He doesn't know what he will do if he breaks down.

"And? What did he say?" England asked, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice.

"He said...Because he wanted to,"

England shifted his jaw, "I'm sorry, what?"

Germany sat up straighter, "He said he did what he did because he wanted to, and he had the means to do it. He said he had waited for the right time for so long, and that night something snapped. He said he only regrets one thing."

"...And...And what's that?"

Germany paused, as if contemplating whether or not to say. "He said he regrets not completing what he set out to do...I'm sure you...know what he means."

Germany went silent, and stared at England. England was not surprised, honestly, he wasn't. He had been expecting America to give an insane reply, aluding to whatever madness had eaten him.

Yes, he had been expecting it. That doesn't particularly mean the words hit him with any less force.

England rested his head in his hands and stared at the coffee table in the centre of the room. America. _His little America. What in the world has happened to you...?_


End file.
